


Dark Night of The Soul

by oceanslimes



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Coping, Family, Grief/Mourning, Multi, Romance, Slow Burn, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-21
Updated: 2020-02-28
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:13:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22827727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceanslimes/pseuds/oceanslimes
Summary: Merlin returns to Ealdor barely clinging to sanity, months after Arthur's death.
Relationships: Gwen/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Hunith & Merlin (Merlin), Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Comments: 22
Kudos: 40





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this fic late last July, after finishing a rewatch of Merlin from beginning to end. About a week later, my very young brother-in-law died suddenly. 
> 
> I sort of thought I wouldn't be able to finish this or even make meaningful progress on it because the connection to grief was just too close to home, but honestly after helping my partner grieve and working through grief myself, I think I really fostered a strong connection to this story and to Merlin, specifically. I hope that comes across in each update. 
> 
> Anyway, I love y'all, Merlin fandom, and I hope you all like it.

A man appears at Hunith’s door with hollowed in cheeks and an overgrown beard. 

His curls are grown out, unkempt; in desperate need of some patience and a hand comb. A druid, she first thinks, wary to keep the door ajar between them. His eyes are familiar, but empty of identifying feeling, and Hunith wonders if he’s drifted through town before, begging here and there for water and bread. He reminds her of Balinor, in the way that he stands, long in the limbs, but comfortable with such stature. 

On second appraisal, Hunith can see that he has no horse with him. No possessions. 

“Yes?” 

She asks, keeping her distance. The man adjusts his cloak self-consciously, revealing a flash of the Pendragon royal colors concealed beneath. Hunith, embarrassed in her suspicion, loosens her grip on the door slightly and tips her head. 

“May I help you, m’lord?”

The man seems to have difficulty speaking at first, clearing his throat, and he finally murmurs,

“It-it’s me.” 

Hunith knows Merlin’s voice, as broken as it sounds. She pulls him into her arms, struggling to reach his shoulders until he bends lower to meet her halfway. His breathing seems dangerously still, as if at any time he expects her to pull a dagger from her belt. Hunith releases him and holds him at arm’s length, looking him over for any injuries. 

“You weren’t so thin when you came home last time, my boy.” 

Hunith chides, half joking, and Merlin hardly responds, barely meeting her eyes. Hunith knows that she has seen this face before, looking at her reflection in the village’s well, in the days after Balinor’s departure. He looks sapped, older than his true age by years. Merlin takes some time to respond to her, rubbing at reddened eyes, seeking out an itch in his beard. 

“I was eating a little better then.” 

Is all he can manage, and before Hunith can think better of it, she asks,

“Is everything alright?” 

Something darkens in Merlin’s eyes, and his breath hitches as he begins to respond to her. He tries to form words several times, but fails, and ultimately settles for shaking his head. 

“Arthur is dead.” 

Merlin says, with a powerful sense of resignation. Hunith feels a sympathetic pain as he stumbles on the words, as if they're not yet familiar. Merlin wipes at stray tears as if they’re a mere annoyance, streaking their way through the filth on his face. She ushers him inside, supporting him as much as he’ll allow. 

Hunith wonders, at the threshold of their home, if this sort of pain was something she’d passed along to him in the womb, some night when she had wept silently and alone, hoping against hope that Balinor still lived, somewhere. If that sort of dark grief lived in the blood or in the bones, waiting to emerge and consume. 

“I should not have pried.” 

Merlin shakes his head and covers her hand, resting on his arm in reassurance, with his own. 

“It’s only the truth. The news will travel soon enough.” 

Hunith nods, taking his cloak from his shoulders, which are so much broader and stronger than they had been when he was just a boy, even in the weakness and weariness of grief. He bends and removes his boots near the door, worn with travel, coming apart from the sole at the heel and toe. When he straightens, his shoulders remain folded in, curled around the concavity of his chest. 

She can see the bloodstains across his tunic, across his ribs, across his heart, but she says nothing to indicate that she notices. Merlin sighs, looking himself over as if he hasn’t looked himself over in months, clearly perturbed by the filth he’s accrued. Before his eyes can rest on the same bloodstain Hunith has noticed, she says, 

“We’ll put you to rights in the morning, love. Why don’t you try to get some sleep?” 

Merlin nods and begins to settle on the mat on the floor, as he always had as a boy, but she stops him. 

“No, no, you need true rest. The bed is yours.” 

Hunith remembers the last time Merlin had been at home with startling clarity, though years had passed since. A hushed conversation with Prince Arthur, Merlin working gently against the stone wall of Arthur’s anger, persuading him to speak with Guinevere. She remembers, only a few years before, listening to their quiet, tender, youthful chatter in the middle of the night as they lay side by side on the mat. They’d been unable to sleep for fear of the battle for Ealdor, the next day. William, still alive and well. 

“I can’t.” 

Merlin says, and Hunith understands. She knows that it is difficult to learn that no amount of lingering in the moors of a bittersweet past will bring it back. And he’s still so young, even for the premature grief that has changed his heart. She nods and relents, making sure he has a pillow under his head and a light blanket to combat the chill of loneliness before taking to the bed on her own. 

In the dimness of the unlit cottage, Hunith watches Merlin’s arm extend, hand brushing across the unoccupied space beside him. She remembers the laughter of boys and wishes, more than anything, that she could replace the silence with it once more.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This second chapter is a short tag to the first, setting up Hunith as one of our key characters. From here on out, the chapters are from Merlin's "perspective", so to speak, with a few interruptions from some others. The next chapters are longer and more involved, but I felt the need to establish Merlin's new living situation first. 
> 
> Enjoy!

When Hunith wakes, Merlin is gone, and she worries that he has let his grief get the better of him. She rushes to dress and crosses the cottage in leaps, praying she hasn’t slept too long. 

The door swings open and Merlin stands in the frame, morning light streaming into the house from behind him. He hasn’t shaven or washed yet, still as filthy as the night before, but he’s returned with a shaving knife, lye soap, and new clothing. Hunith exhales her relief. 

“You worried me, Merlin.” 

She says, a hand pressed over her heart, and Merlin smiles sheepishly. His voice sounds better than its hoarse whisper the night before. 

“I’m sorry. I only want to stop smelling like the backside of a horse.” 

Hunith smiles at that, noticing his signature sense of humor hasn’t been lost. 

“Are you going to get rid of it?” 

She asks, gesturing to his beard. Merlin thoughtfully strokes it and shrugs. 

“I might keep it. Never grown one on my own before.” 

Growing more serious again, Hunith clears her throat before courageously offering,

“They may not like it very much at the palace.” 

Merlin tenses under the implication. He hasn’t had time to discuss it with her, but Hunith wonders selfishly if he has returned for good. His gaze drops away, his sense of humor lost, and Hunith knows his answer before he can say for himself. 

“There is no place for me at court now.” 

Hunith is secretly pleased, but she isn’t entirely convinced, and she tests her luck. 

“Surely, they would find a place for you. You’ve served the crown so proudly for all of these years.” 

Merlin laughs, a strange and bitter response. 

“What do you suppose that place might be? Do you think the queen will require a manservant, without a king to make use of him?” 

Hunith shakes her head, thinking it better to let him think aloud. 

“Perhaps I’d become the court sorcerer – if magic were legal. But I was very careful to ensure that would never come to pass. The only chance of that happening is at the bottom of an icy lake now, rotting away like useless offal.” 

Merlin almost looks surprised by his own outburst when it finally ends. His shoulders fold inward in shame. 

“Mum. I’m so sorry. I don’t know what I’m saying.” 

Hunith stops him before he can continue. 

“There’s no need for that.” 

He seems to punish himself internally, wincing in embarrassment. 

“No, no, it isn’t an excuse. I can’t act this way. I can’t start off our time back together like this.” 

Hunith nods, accepting the apology without creating any more of it than necessary. Merlin seems shaken by his own bitterness and gathers his recently procured items in his arms, muttering, “I suppose I’d better wash.” before making his unsteady way to the basin. Hunith decides it’s as good an indication as any that it’s time to begin her day and offer Merlin some privacy. 

His thoughts seem unorganized, out of reach until they’re ready to burst forth, and she remembers that impenetrable fog of grief so well. Balinor’s face, actions, words, coming and going without warning, throughout both her pregnancy and Merlin’s subsequent childhood. Merlin is not with child, but he carries a darkness in the space where someone might instead carry the cherished love of the lost. There is no comfort, no compassion, in Arthur’s loss.

As she reaches the doorway herself, basket in tow for hay-making with the rest of the townspeople, Hunith turns to watch as Merlin removes and looks over his tunic. His face is obscured, turned away from her and hidden behind the unruly length of his hair, but she knows, from his stillness alone, that he has rediscovered the bloodstains she’d seen the night before. 

He brings it to his face, his shoulders heaving, and Hunith takes her leave.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has a little bit of a funny flow as we jump back to the past and begin telling the story of what Merlin was up to for all of those months after Camlann, so I apologize for the mixing of two time periods in one chapter. 
> 
> Thank you to the very kind reviews and kudos this has received so far! There's more of the actual story in the upcoming chapters, so I look forward to getting more feedback from you as we press on. :)

Things in Ealdor move the way they always have, in the weeks following Merlin’s return home. Any remains of Aggravaine’s attacks before the Battle at Camlann seem to have been swiftly dealt with and, as near as Merlin can tell, there are very few new graves in the burial yard. The heat of high summer drives the village children outdoors, to play and work alongside their parents in the nearby lord’s meadow. Between hay-making and the upkeep of their own vegetable plots, the villagers are occupied with labor from sun up to sundown and Merlin revels in the comfort of the routine. Old friends, from the early days of his youth, invite him to spend evenings by their hearths. They introduce him to their children, some of them boasting three or as many as four little ones.

Merlin greets all of his old acquaintances with the effort of being personable, but deep down, he feels a sort of otherness around them. The village is filled with people, paired off neatly, who have found an easy productivity and relative happiness in a working marriage. He isn’t at war with the concept of marrying, himself, but Merlin can’t conjure to memory a partnership that simple in his limited experience.  
  
He thinks of Arthur. Of course he does. Arthur comes to mind like rising nausea, bubbling up at every opportunity. Merlin’s hands shake when he mends his clothing and his mother’s, he pricks himself several times over and hears Arthur’s chiding in the back of his mind.  
  
 _“Merlin, it’s for sewing the clothes, not for sewing you.”_  
  
He’s angry that Arthur still has the gall to speak to him from beyond the grave. He’s angry that, even in the simplest of tasks, Arthur is still looking over his shoulder, trying to be involved somehow.  
  
Merlin wants so badly, meeting the families of his old peers, to warn them. There is always a calling to look the two people he has known his entire life in the eyes and tell them that, in future, one of them will die before the other. That neither of them will be able to prevent that loss. He does not know how to look at the children without begging them to consider the idea that destiny is, in fact, a bane on man. To know your own destiny is to lose your freedom, is the mantra that haunts Merlin’s every thought. More intrusive than the pain of that lesson, however, are the constant questions, the constant hopes. _When? How long? Where? When? Will I be there? Will I be dead? How long will I have been dead? When? How will he know what to do? Will he know when to do it? Will he remember me? When?_ and, of course, the damned quiet.  
  
Even in the tense final months of their friendship, Merlin does not recall Arthur ever being quiet long enough to let a silence settle between them. He recalls jibes and teasing, bickering and insults that failed to sting, and even the awful conversations surrounding Arthur’s open affection for Mordred.  
  
 _“What of the bond between knights?”_

_“The law must be applied. It is paramount.”_

_“You’re breaking his heart.”_

The worst of it is knowing that neither of them survived, after all. In the months leading to that final day, Merlin’s hatred for Mordred burned so brightly, he couldn’t recognize the ways in which they’d been so alike. The ways that irrational, ill-advised love had driven them both to the knife’s edge. Merlin thinks, more often than he’d like to, about the sound of Mordred’s mortal, animal pain, echoing up from the dungeon, through the castle. He knows that feeling; calling out to the very threads of the universe to undo themselves and weave another way. They won’t and can’t rewrite time just for the pain of a single human being, but in the throes of unrestrained grief, the laws of existence mean nothing.  
  
Of course, Merlin has no intention of dragging his grief with him into every waking moment of his new life in the village, no intention of making himself completely impersonable to his peers. He longs for new friendship to balm the sting of losing so many others. Merlin knows that, at any time, he could write to Camelot and reach for the friendships he’s left behind in Gwen and Gaius. He does not know how many of the knights, if any of them, returned from battle, and that alone is enough to keep him from doing so. He cannot bear the thought of realizing further loss.  
  
The months that came to pass between the offering of Arthur’s body to Avalon and his return to Ealdor are lonely ones that he does not often think on. Merlin remembers the first month in awful clarity, spent camped at the side of the lake, waiting for any sign that Arthur might emerge and come looking for him.

* * *

  
His rations ran out quickly, most of them used to preserve Arthur’s strength, and he fell back on his training with Gaius to gather herbs and roots to keep himself alive, hunting small game when he was able. The living was lean, and after some time of exposing himself to the elements of late autumn, Merlin was begrudgingly left to seek out shelter nearby. He decided most assuredly that he would make the walk to Avalon’s banks every day, settling in at an unused hollow at the base of the foothills, only an hour’s journey away. But soon the cold set in, and cruel winter storms froze and killed a generous portion of the land's yield. The lean living became leaner and leaner still. 

Merlin made the journey every day all the same, determined that on one day, not too long from then, he would arrive at the lakeside and see Arthur, wading onto the bank, near frozen from the cold. Merlin would revive him with his magic, warming him with fire in his palms, and Arthur would insist that they make for Camelot immediately. The nightmare would be over, as if it had never happened. Kilgarrah had not said as much to him. He had no reason to believe that Arthur would rise again so soon, but something in him was sure that he would not have to wait very long before Albion was in need of its savior again.

But two more hungry months passed, snow and cold rain struck at the earth, fallen leaves rotted into the soil.

Avalon’s waters stood still.

Arthur did not appear.

After a time, the hollow could not house enough warmth, even with a fire, to see Merlin through the coldest nights. He knew that he had no choice; surviving to see any possibility of Arthur’s return would require finding a better place to set roots, at least temporarily.

Merlin took what he could carried what little he had through the icy woodlands, burdened with the anxiety of leaving Avalon, and Arthur, behind. He longed to turn back, but the cold pressed him onward, over gnarled tree roots and travel-worn paths. A long day of travel passed and he found himself still no closer to any place to rest his head, and the land around him remained as barren of food as the hollow near Avalon had. Dismayed at the fast disappearing sunlight, Merlin picked up his pace, though he struggled to fight his hunger and exhaustion to continue on. He was too far away to try to make it back to the hollow before nightfall and he was hesitant to use magic to keep warm or keep the path lit. However, the cold seemed to drain precious energy from him far quicker than was preferable. Merlin risked a gentle heating spell, glowing in the center of his palms.

A patch of old leaves crackled underfoot a few paces behind him.

Merlin walked on, betraying no immediately obvious sense of fear. He was unarmed, which caused him some concern, though he kept to mind that his magic was far stronger than any weapon he could have wielded. In truth, he had no desire to use his power to harm a highwayman; he had no valuables to be taken, and any animal that hoped to make a meal of him would have a difficult time working against a barrage of protective spells. There was no particularly good reason to confront whatever or whomever was tracking him, and so he didn’t.

In the stark darkness, the occasional root or stone threatened to trip him, and he did stumble, but the presence only waited for him to right himself before walking on with him. The wet, wintry air bit at the exposed flesh around his eyes and cheeks, and he found himself thankful for the beard that was coming in, protecting his chin. His clothing, however, had outlived its usefulness against the weather. Merlin shivered, growing the glowing heat of his hands to warm his arms. The follower stopped abruptly, seemingly disturbed by his use of magic somehow. 

If they’d been startled, they would either prepare to strike him or leave him be altogether. He waited in silence for some time, shivering against the cold, before turning, slowly, to face the figure that had been hot on his heels for hours.

Unfortunately for Merlin, whoever it was had a magnificent stature.

The man was large, imposing, and heavily cloaked against the cold.

They watched each other carefully, neither making any moves, until Merlin could barely stand the tension. He called out, though he already knew the answer. 

“Hello? Is someone there?”

Metal slid against metal as the figure retrieved a sword from his scabbard. Merlin saw no reason to fear yet, given that most strangers in Albion made sure to be armed out of caution when strange men who did magic were speaking to them. Merlin called out to him again, aiming to dispel some of their tension. 

“I have nothing valuable to offer you, I’m afraid, and I don’t intend to do you any harm. Is there something you want from me?”

The figure drew closer to him, haltingly, with measured steps that almost sounded fearful in their cautiousness. Merlin sighed, calling out to him once more. 

“It’s quite unnerving that you won’t speak to me, you know. Should I be prepared to defend myself?”  
  
The footsteps halted close by, closer than Merlin liked, but he held his tongue to give the stranger a final chance to respond to him. He drew back his hood and Merlin strained his eyes against the darkness to try to make sense of the face above the massive shoulders. The stranger seemed to be doing the same to him, craning his neck forward to sort out Merlin's features against the glow of his hands.  
  
“Merlin?”  
  
The stranger asked, incredulous. Merlin knew the voice well, but without any proper light, he still couldn’t settle on the identity. He murmured his illumination spell, bathing them both in cold blue light.

Merlin felt a chill greater than winter itself pass through him as recognition dawned.  
  
“Percival.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 4 will pick up where this leaves off, and once the story of the interim is all told, we'll pick back up in Ealdor. 
> 
> The three lines from Merlin's remembered conversation with Arthur are from The Drawing of The Dark, S5. The line about sewing is my own invention. :P


	4. Chapter 4

Percival was in wonderful shape. The unnatural glow of Merlin’s illumination spell did little to detract from his familiar charms; the strong jaw, the closely cropped golden hair. The air hung between them like still water, suspended. Merlin hadn’t expected him to be overjoyed, but he’d expected, at the least, a noticeable reaction at seeing each other so suddenly. Percival looked to be tackling a great many thoughts at once and he shifted the hilt of his sword in his hand as if he couldn’t decide whether to sheathe it or not.

Merlin, being in a weakened state from months of living rough, refused to make the next move. Percival stared at the magic pooling in Merlin’s hands for several horrible, uneasy moments before finally speaking to him again.

“I don’t know where to start.”

Merlin nodded, truly understanding. He imagined the list of questions was endless.

“You have magic.”

Percival said, gesturing loosely with his sword to indicate their light source.

“I do.”

Merlin replied, careful not to make any sudden moves. Or any moves at all.

“We thought you were dead. Both of you.”

Percival said, sheathing his sword, and Merlin felt his entire person turn white.

“Both of us?”

Merlin repeated, feeling every day of hardship he’d put behind him all at once. To tell Percival the truth would be right, but it risked the suspicion of his own character. Not only had Merlin demonstrated that he’d had magic all along, he’d clearly lied about it for years. Merlin had jeopardized any trust that had existed between them in the first place. For that trust’s sake, the only choice was to tell the truth. But he could not be so callous as to tell Percival the awful truth in the dead of night, in the freezing wood.

“Percival, how did you get here?”

“I was looking for you. I’ve made camp not far from here, but I heard you in the road. I wasn’t sure it was you, of course, or I would have revealed myself to you sooner.”

“You’re alone?”

Percival looked somewhat embarrassed, but he nodded.

“The search parties were called off a long time ago, but it didn’t feel right to stop looking so soon.” 

Merlin nodded. The knights couldn’t look for them forever. At some time or another, Camelot needed to move forward. Merlin wondered, briefly and terribly, why he’d stayed by the lake.

“Can we continue this at camp? I’m sure the both of us have news to trade.”

Percival gestured over his shoulder, tipping his head toward the path behind him.

“This way.”

They walked in silence, shoulder to shoulder. Having not encountered another person for several months, Merlin felt out of place walking at Percival’s side as if no separation had occurred at all. Their friendship long preceded the months spent at Avalon’s banks in waiting, but a certain easiness between them, Merlin felt, had been lost in the interim. Merlin understood, with some certainty, that the discovery of his magic had likely been responsible for removing that comfort. He would never forget the look on Arthur’s face when he’d discovered the truth. The hurt. The fear.

Merlin maintained their light source for the sake of reaching camp safely, but Percival, at times, betrayed some discomfort with it when Merlin’s hands came too close to him.

“Strange.”

He said, glancing warily at the light.

“Illegal.”

Merlin responded, his heart pounding in his chest. They were going to have to cross the bridge, eventually, of whether Merlin could keep his freedom or not. Percival seemed to sort through his thoughts, working on an internal dialogue to make the decision. He kept his verdict to himself, if he’d ever arrived at one. 

They came to Percival’s camp, humble in its simplicity, though certainly more comfortable than the icy hollow Merlin had left behind. His horse grazed at the dried moss beneath the trees nearby, untroubled by his master’s absence. Percival had also built up a roaring fire, which emanated a delicious warmth across the campsite. Merlin had no trouble with settling himself close to the fire, stretching his legs out along the ground for comfort. He’d been so cold on previous nights that his knees had to remain folded to his chest to get any sleep at all. Percival had also had the presence of mind to bring with him an extra bedroll and cloaks to warm Merlin and the conspicuously missing Arthur, should he find them after all. It was a sort of heaven, in Merlin’s eyes.

“Hungry?”

Percival asked, passing Merlin a generous portion of palace rations and a small serving of ale. He accepted it happily, savoring the first bite before even thinking to offer thanks.

“Thank you, I’m starving.”

Merlin said through mouthfuls of dried apple. Percival smiled at his eagerness; a flicker of how things had been between them before. He fed the fire before settling himself on a log, clearing his throat.

“So, you…have you always had magic?”

Merlin swallowed, sorting out his best response.

“I have. I didn’t want to lie to all of you, but I couldn’t bear the idea of any of you lying for me.”

“Does the king know?”

Dread rushed through Merlin, souring the taste of the ale. He steeled himself, hoping he could keep composure delivering the news.

“The king did not survive Camlann.”

Pericval’s expression tightened and he dropped his gaze to the ground.

“I hoped that you had saved him.”

“I tried.”

Merlin said, battling back impending tears.

“Mordred came upon him, when the battle was won.”

Merlin paused to gather himself.

“I found Arthur, when it was all over. He was mortally wounded.”

Percival kept his silence, eyes trained firmly on the ground.

“Gaius and I did what we could to help him, but we were too late. I delivered him to Avalon, believing there might be time for something stronger than medicine.”

Merlin shook his head in defeat.

“But I laid him to rest there.”

They didn’t speak for a few moments, letting the news hang in the air above them. Percival pressed his palms against his eyes, uttering a sigh heavy with grief and disappointment. Merlin assumed that the others had prepared themselves for confirmation of Arthur’s loss, after months of hearing no news at all. Percival raised his head again after a beat, his eyes red with unshed tears.

“I can only assume you crossed paths with Morgana.”

Percival murmured guiltily. Merlin nodded.

“I killed her.”

He said steadily and far colder than he’d expected to.

“We tried to buy you more time.” 

Percival responded, quietly. Dread tugged at Merlin’s gut.

“We?”

“Me and…Gwaine.”

Percival struggled to maintain his composure as he continued.

“Morgana tortured him. I couldn’t save him.”

The shock smothered Merlin’s senses and seemed to drain the very color from his sight. He felt tears on his cheeks, but the sensation of shedding them seemed numb. So many of them had perished, since the early days of the round table. Elyan. Lancelot. Mordred. Arthur. Gwaine. Arthur’s tumultuous time on the throne had cost so many lives, though the benefit for Camelot had been immeasurable. Merlin spoke up, his voice shaking.

“He was a good man.”

Percival allowed him some more time to adjust to the news, keeping his eyes averted for Merlin’s privacy, but he added his own painful sentiment. 

“He deserved a better death.”

The fire burned on and filled the newest silence between them. Even in happier times, Merlin and Percival had often been drawn to the others, speaking to each other only in the form of occasional comments during the knights’ horseplay and when it seemed right to exchange words at a feast. Merlin had never imagined that they would be sitting together in the dead of winter, trading the worst news either of them had heard in their lifetimes. It seemed impossible to imagine such a lonely reunion, only hours before.

“Did you ever tell him about your magic? Arthur, I mean.”

Percival finally asked, looking to Merlin with sympathetic concern. 

“No.”

Merlin lied, fidgeting with his hands. He preferred to keep their last two days together to himself. They’d said and done so many things in that short time that, under any other circumstances, they never would have. It seemed disrespectful to Arthur and to his memory to speak on it, even with a trusted friend.

“Merlin, you should know that the queen hopes to revisit Uther’s policy. When you return, you could advise her.”

Percival said, some hope dispelling the heaviness of the air around them. Merlin was taken aback, filled with worry at the implication of Gwen hoping to undo the precedent set by the Pendragons.

“She can’t. She’ll alienate her people.”

“Sorcerers are part of her people too, are they not?”

“Of course they are, but she cannot risk losing the loyalty of her non-magic citizens. It wouldn’t sit well with them for the queen to cast out Uther’s law so soon after the death of his son. Arthur upheld that law in his rule, and with good reason.”

Percival nodded in agreement, leaning forward with growing interest.

“Gaius has made a fair effort at offering the same advice and she has not yet acted. There is time for you to convince her yourself.”

Merlin shook his head.

“I can’t return to Camelot yet.”

“Why not?”

Merlin sighed, squirming in discomfort.

“There is a prophecy.”

Percival levelled him with an incredulous look.

“A prophecy?”

“It foretold Arthur’s death. It tells of his return, too.”

“When?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, when does he return?”

Merlin squirmed again under Percival’s rational examination.

“I don’t know.”

“The prophecy doesn’t say?”

Merlin shook his head, embarrassed.

“No, but I’ve been…waiting at Avalon.”

“Since Camlann?”

“Yes.”

Percival raised his eyebrows and then furrowed them again, clearly troubled and baffled by Merlin’s decision to cling so closely to a mere prophecy.

“Merlin, the queen would offer you a position in her household, if you wanted it.”

“It isn’t about a job, Percival. Someone has to stay here.”

“Why?”

“Because-”

Merlin paused, catching himself to avoid raising his voice.

“-because I can’t let him return and find that no one’s waited for him.”

Percival watched him silently, giving Merlin space to continue airing his thoughts and, to Merlin’s own surprise, he did. 

“I don’t want Arthur to wake up and…I don’t know, feel alone, I suppose. I don’t want him to think that the world left him behind so soon.”

Merlin was put off of his food entirely by the revelation of that thought, aloud. That was the big fear, out in the open for Percival to see. Percival nodded, sympathetic and understanding, even as silly as Merlin had felt telling him.

“That’s a very noble concern, Merlin…but, prophecy or not, you’re alive now.”

Percival sorted through his next step carefully before coloring his voice with a tenderness.

“I know that even thinking of leaving his side is difficult for you, but can’t I convince you that sitting still, waiting for a dead man to live, is a waste of your own life?”

Merlin shook his head, wounded.

“It isn’t. I have to be there when he returns.”

Merlin was aware of the childish pinch in his voice, but Percival maintained his patience.

“Merlin, please listen to me. You don’t have to come back to Camelot, but you can’t stay here. Not through the winter.”

A part of Merlin far below the surface understood that his friend had genuine concerns, but a stubborn sense of loyalty possessed him.

“No.”

Percival sighed, somewhat defeated.

“Listen, stay here for the night. Rest up. Let’s talk about this in the morning.”

Merlin was inclined to turn Percival down, but he hadn’t the defenses to face the cold on his own, so he reluctantly agreed to stay. He knew, truly knew, that Percival was trying to do the right thing by him. He’d come all the way from Camelot, hoping against hope, as Merlin did every day, that he’d find them alive and bring them home safely. Merlin could not, however, imagine returning to Camelot and living as if all was well while Arthur still slept at Avalon. He could not, no matter how he tried, erase the vision of Arthur waking, alone and lost, on the banks. Arthur, cold and filled with every emotion he’d had suffusing him at his moment of death. Merlin could not see a future in which he sacrificed Arthur’s first breath of new life for his own personal comfort. There was no future, for him, in living an unremarkable existence without Arthur; without his purpose.

Which was why, before dawn, Merlin woke on his own. He did not bother to wake Percival, leaving the kindly offered bedroll behind. He did not take any of Percival’s rations for himself.

He rose just before the first light of morning and, without further hesitation, went on his way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Percy was a bit of a slippery fish for me, given how little he speaks in the show, but I wanted to give Merlin a chance to find out about Gwaine and speak to a friend. 
> 
> Grieving is hard and weird and it makes you do irrational things, like wandering off into the winter wilderness, thinking you'll find a better solution to your problem. Oh, Merlin. 
> 
> Anyway, I hope y'all enjoyed it, thanks as always to those of you who added comments and gave kudos!


End file.
